j,'   'm 

L^JL- 


)J 


EX    LIBRIS 

THE    UNIVERSITY 

OF    CALIFORNIA 


FROM  THE  FUND 
ESTABLISHED  AT  YALE 

IN  1927  BY 
WILLIAM  H.  CROCKER 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1882 
SHEFFIELD  SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL 
YALE  UNIVERSITY     /  -    / 


Burning  Bush* 


Burning  Bush 


h 

f^ar/e  W^ilson  ^ 


Haven: 
Tale  University  "Press. 

J^jndon  :  Humphrey  tJftCilford  :  Oxford  University  'Press. 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
Tale  University  Tress. 


To 
Thomas  Ellis  "Baker 


646500 


I  AM  indebted  to  the  following  magazines  for  permis 
sion  to  reprint  poems  which  first  appeared  in  their 
pages:  The  Yale  Review,  the  Nation,  the  Literary  Re 
view,  Harper's,  the  Delineator,  the  Farm  Journal,  Sun 
set,  the  Survey,  Holland's,  the  Texas  Review,  the  Book 
man,  Contemporary  Verse,  the  Measure,  the  Midland, 
and  Poetry  (Chicago). 


Contents. 


PAGE 

Fairy  Fires    .......  13 

November      .......  14 

1.  Leaves 14 

2.  Overhead  Travellers         .          .          .          .  14 

3.  Grey  Days 14 

4.  Acorns            .          .          .          .          .          •  15 

Stars 16 

Winter  Flowers      .          .          .          .          .          .  17 

Burning  Bush         .          .          .          .          .          .  18 

Way-song      .          .          .          .          .          ...  19 

Morning  Song        .          .          .          .          .          .  20 

Bees     .                    21 

Road-wise      .......  22 

Song 

Storm  Song  .......  24 

Song  to  the  Beat  of  Wings       ....  25 

I  Love  the  Friendly  Faces  of  Old  Sorrows  .          .  26 

Prisons           .......  27 

I  Weight  My  Mind       .... 

Pines  in  the  Rain   ......  29 

The  Lord  of  the  Trees    ....  30 

The  Four  Kings     .          .          .          .          .          .  31 

The  World  at  the  Bottom  of  the  Lake         .          .  32 

Grey 33 

Tree  Talk 34 

I  Shall  Be  Loved  as  Quiet  Things     ...  35 

Alternatives             ......  36 

The  Highwayman           .....  37 

The  Marching  Mountains        ....  38 

The  Window         .         .       "  .         .         .          .  39 

[  9  ] 


PAGE 

To  One  Who  Smiles  at  My  Simplicity        .          .  40 

Answers         .......  41 

Dogmatic       .......  42 

New  York  from  the  Harbor      ....  43 

The  Old  Woman  with  the  Grey  Shawl       .          .  44 

Street-ends     ...          .          .          .          .  45 

Sunset  Song  .         .          *.         .          .          .46 

Box-car  Letters      .          .          ...          .  47 

The  Hill  Steps 49 

The  Elopement      .          .          .         .        '•»"..  50 

Temperate  Tribute          .          .          »          *          .  51 

Maples  in  the  Fall           .          .          .         .          .  52 

The  Greedy  Ghost 53 

Rain  and  Wind 54 

Color 55 

Mountain-dream     ......  56 

A  Flock  of  Birds 57 

1.  A  Bluebird 57 

2.  Doves 57 

3.  The  Wren 57 

4.  The  Wood-thrush,  or  Bell-bird           .          .  58 

5.  The  Jay         ....          .          .  58 

6.  The  Cardinal  and  His  Lady       .          .          .  59 
Cocoons         .          .          .          .          .          ...  60 

Garrets  for  Poets  ......  62 

Dressmaker   .......  63 

Tools 64 

No  Respecter  of  Persons           .          .          „   *      .  65 

Full  Moon  before  Dark 66 

The  Lord  Speaks  from  the  Banks  of  the  Stream    .  67 

Three  Small  Poems          .          .          .                    .  69 

1.  To  Get  Wisdom     .....  69 

[  10  ] 


PAGE 

2.  Meekness  and  Pride         .          .          .         .  69 

3.  Courage                    «.         .          •          .          .  69 
Not  in  the  Whirlwind    .                     .          .          .  70 
Vanity            .          .          .          .          •          •          •  71 
Songs  from  a  Still  Place  ..... 

1.  The  Wall  of  Tears           ....  72 

2.  The  Plaited  Wreath         ....  72 

3.  Beads 72 

4.  Peace 73 

5.  Giving            ......  73 

6.  Free 74 

Orders            .                     ....  75 

One  Morning  in  Gyara  .....  76 

The  Cripple            ......  78 

Pronouns       .......  79 

Root  and  Flower  ......  80 

Initiation       ....... 

Winter  Dusk 

Acknowledgment    ...... 

Anniversary  in  November          .... 

1.  Birthday 84 

2.  The  Light  in  the  Woods  .  .84 

3.  Migrants        ...... 

4.  All  Saints'  Day 85 

Clear  Hour  ...  86 
The  Housewife:  Winter  Afternoon  . 

Sky-colors      ....... 

1.  Blue  and  Silver       ..... 

2.  Rose  and  Grey        ..... 

3.  Pale  Pink  and  Primrose  ....  88 

4.  Clear  Gold 89 

Soft  Rain      ...  90 


PAGE 

The  Mirrored  Bird 91 

If  My  Breath  Is  Taken 92 

Labels  ....  93 


[  12   ] 


Fairy  Fires. 


THEY  burn  on  the  window-pane 
When  the  day  is  soft  and  late, 
But  you  think  they  are  out  in  the  cold 
Between  the  bush  and  the  gate. 

Clean  through  the  blaze  you  look 
At  the  dear,  black,  naked  trees: 
No  beautiful  bough  is  burned 
By  hungerless  fires  like  these, 

But  no  heart  is  ever  warmed, 
And  no  spirit  weds  desire, 
And  no  house  is  ever  home 
That  wants  for  the  fairy  fire. 


November. 


LEAVES 

MY  great  trees  are  stripping  themselves, 
Throwing  away  their  gauds, 
Preparing  for  the  winter  of  their  souls. 
But  my  little  cedars 

Are  picking  up  the  twisted  golden  baubles 
And  sticking  them  in  their  hair. 


OVERHEAD  TRAVELLERS 

THERE  you  go  in  your  breathless  wedge, 
Melting  across  the  sky  over  my  house  like  a  clamor 
ing  shadow ! 

My  heart  leaps,  and  I  flap  my  wings  wildly, 

But  I  cannot  go  just  yet. 

My  fledglings  do  not  grow  so  fast  as  yours, 

I  must  scratch  for  them  longer. 

But  some  day,  we,  too,  shall  take  the  air-lines — 

My  mate  and  I. 

(Unless,  indeed,   I  shall  have  found  real  wings  in  the 
meantime. 

In  that  case,  it  won't  matter, 

For  I  shall  go  farther  than  you,  then,  haughty  birds.) 


GREY  DAYS 

ON  a  grey  day 
When  I  am  alone, 
My  heart  glows  and  blooms 
Like  embers  among  ashes. 

[  14 


On  a  grey  day 

When  I  am  alone, 

The  tent-fires  of  nomads, 

And  the  road-fires  of  palmers, 

And  the  hearth-fires  of  builders 

Burn  in  my  spirit. 


ACORNS 

NOW  and  then,  all  through  the  day  and  night, 
An  acorn  drops  on  the  roof  and  goes  rattling  down 
the  gutter. 

I  cannot  tell  why  the  sound  delights  me, 
Or  why  I  have  such  a  pleased  and  noticed  feeling, 
As  of  a  child  that  shares  a  joke  with  its  parent, 
When  I  think  of  the  black  old  oak 
Stretching  his  craggy  arms  over  my  roof-tree 
And  dropping  his  polished  pebbles  on  my  house. 


Stars. 

I  AM  so  small :  when  I  go  out 
Beneath  the  heaven  of  All  Souls, 
And  see  them  twinkling  all  about 
Who  won  through  to  their  briary  goals ; 
When  I  look  up  into  the  dome 
Their  gathered  constellations  wreathe — 
The  Great,  the  Faithful,  trooping  home- 
I  am  so  small,  I  scarcely  breathe. 

I  am  so  great — for  I  am  I. 
Not  one  in  all  that  starry  band 
Went  just  the  way  I  travel  by 
To  overtake  my  fatherland. 
Forever  seeking  mine  own  Sign, 
Lord  of  my  spirit's  lone  estate, 
My  soul's  a  heaven  where  They  shine 
A  part  of  me — I  am  so  great. 


Winter  Flovcers. 

AT  the  door  of  my  kitchen  I  feed  my  flowers : 
.  My  pigeons,  the  silvery  lilies  that  sweep 
Over  the  garden  the  frost  has  slain, 
Wild  as  beauty,  and  soft  as  sleep. 

My  flowers  bloom  up  over  chimney  and  stack, 
Blue  smoke-irises,  bodiless  things. 
Orchids  of  pearl  that  I  could  not  reach 
Except  that  my  hunger  and  thirst  have  wings, 

And  then,  when  my  flowers  of  light  have  gone, 
Vanished  and  gone  as  a  shadow  goes, 
I  kneel  by  the  hearth  in  a  little  house. 
And  warm  my  heart  it  a  buioing  rose. 


[17] 


Burning  Bush. 

MY  heart,  complaining  like  a  bird, 
Kept  drooping  on  her  weary  nest : 
"Oh,  take  me  out  under  the  sky, 
Find  me  a  little  rest !" 

I  took  her  out  under  the  sky, 
I  climbed  a  straggling,  sandy  street, 
Where  little  weathered  houses  sag, 
And  town  and  country  meet, 

And  in  the  corner  of  a  yard 
Unkempt,  forlorn,  and  winter-browned, 
A  single  sprig  of  Burning  Bush 
Thrust  up  from  the  bare  ground. 

It  bore  no  leaf  as  yet — one  flower, 
Three  pointed  buds  of  pure  rose-flame: 
Up  whirred  my  heart,  circled  in  air, 
Back  to  my  bosom  came. 

And  that  was  all  I  showed  to  her — 
I  could  not  find  another  thing — 
But,  "Take  me  home  again,"  she  cried, 
"And  I  will  sing  and  sing!" 


tf^ay-song. 


GIVE  me  your  clearest  hour 
And  let  me  go: 
Days  are  too  garrulous, 
Years  are  too  slow. 

Set  me  a  Brownie's  feast, 
Cake-crumbs  and  wine, 
Outside  the  tavern-door — 
Thus  I'd  dine. 

The  stars  are  so  far  apart, 
My  steps  so  small, 
I  must  make  haste  who  would 
Set  foot  in  all. 


[  19 1 


Morning  Song. 


THERE'S  a  mellower  light  just  over  the  hill, 
And  somewhere  a  yellower  daffodil, 
And  honey,  somewhere,  that's  sweeter  still. 

And  some  were  meant  to  stay  like  a  stone, 
Knowing  the  things  they  have  always  known, 
Sinking  down  deeper  into  their  own ; 

But  some  must  follow  the  wind  and  me, 
Who  like  to  be  starting  and  like  to  be  free, 
Never  so  glad  as  we're  going  to  be ! 


[    20    ] 


Bees. 

FROM  some  far  home  I  brought  a  swarm  of  bees, 
Old  honey-makers  hiving  in  my  brain: 
They  find  the  small,  green  flowers  of  the  trees, 
And  the  one  poppy  idling  in  the  grain; 

The  sun  is  shepherd  to  my  heedless  flocks  ; 

In  vain  I  bid  them  forage  or  be  still : 

Their  drunken  wings  sing  down  the  solemn  clocks 

Fanning  the  flowers  upon  some  timeless  hill. 

No  stretch  of  stony  path,  nor  bitter  seas, 
But  must  yield  up  some  blossom,  white  or  red, 
Some  nectar-throated  anguish,  for  my  bees — 
I  shall  have  honey,  though  I  starve  for  bread. 


Road-wise. 

THEY  told  me  to  save  my  pennies, 
But  I  scorned  to  be  prudent  and  wise, 
And  I  poured  them  out  by  the  lapful 
To  please  the  old  Gypsy's  eyes; 

Yes,  even  my  mother's  luck-piece 
I  laid  in  her  wheedling  palm, 
To  pay  for  my  iron  breast-pin 
And  my  vial  of  Wayfarer's  Balm. 

So  you  need  not  flutter  your  ribbons 
And  trinkets  before  my  eyes; 
I  have  travelled  since  that  May  morning, 
And  oh,  I  am  very  wise ! 

There's  an  old,  dim  shop  in  a  city 
I'll  be  seeking  before  I  die: 
For  I've  got  just  three  gold  pennies — 
And  I  know  what  I  want  to  buy. 


Song. 


THE  Wind  was  my  mother: 
The  Wind  is  free. 

Then  why  am  I  planted  in  one  same  spot 
Like  a  tree? 

A  Bird  was  my  father : 

A  Bird  is  free! 

No  fruit  shall  they  gather  but  sighs  and  songs 

From  me. 


Storm  Song. 

MY  bosom  with  the  beat  of  wings  is  troubled  as  the 
day  is  falling; 

Within  my  bosom  hungry  birds  are  circling  on  the  wind 
and  calling. 

My  breast  is  blinded  by  the  rain  and  buffeted  by  weary 

flying. 
My  bosom  with  the  beat  of  wings  is  troubled,  and  with 

bitter  crying. 


Song  to  the  Beat  of  Wrings. 

O  PEACE  is  a  white  bird, 
And  Beauty  is  a  castled  cloud, 
And  Love  is  a  fierce  fire  that  loves  to  be  made  kind ; 

And  I  have  climbed  the  castled  cloud, 

And  I  have  caged  the  fierce  fire, 

But  the  white  bird,  the  white  bird — her  I  cannot  bind! 


/  Love  the  Friendly  Faces  of 
Old  Sorrows. 

I  LOVE  the  friendly  faces  of  old  Sorrows; 
I  have  no  secrets  that  they  do  not  know. 
They  are  so  old,  I  think  they  have  forgotten 
What  bitter  words  were  spoken,  long  ago. 

I  hate  the  cold,  stern  faces  of  new  Sorrows 
Who  stand  and  watch,  and  catch  me  all  alone. 
I  should  be  braver  if  I  could  remember 
How  different  the  older  ones  have  grown. 


26 


Prisons. 


MASTERS  have  wrought  in  prisons, 
At  peace  in  cells  of  stone : 
From  their  thick  walls  I  fashion 
Windows  to  light  my  own. 


/  W^eight  My  Mind. 

1  WEIGHT  my  mind  as  best  I  can  to  keep  it  close  to 
earth 
With  chunky  little  platitudes  and  bits  of  twisted  mirth  ; 

For  dust  will  gather  in  the  house,  and  shirts  unmended  lie 
Unless  you  learn  to  keep  your  mind  from  gadding  in  the 
sky. 

As  well  detain  a  puff  of  smoke,  or  cobweb-bind  a  bird ! 
Answering  to  a  sudden  call  some  inner  ear  has  heard, 

It  circles  up  from  cloud  to  cloud,  joyous,  unsatisfied, 
Crying  and   crying  after   God — as   minds   have   always 
cried. 


Pines  in  the  Rain. 

THIS  hour  that  I  have  loved  so  was  silver  and  green 
and  brown — 
A  listening  hour  in  the  pine-woods  where  I  have  learned 

so  much. 

Soft  through  the  tufted  branches  the  dim  rain  sifted  down, 
Tipping  with  rayless  jewels  the  low  plumes  I  could  touch. 

I  wish  I  could  write  a  poem  that  was  tall  and  straight  as 

a  pine: 
I  wish  it  could  say  to  someone  what  the  pine-trees  say  to 

me. 

I  think  their  way  of  talking  would  be  no  better  than  mine 
If  I  were  as  sure  and  simple  and  quiet  as  a  tree. 


The  Lord  of  the  Trees. 


I  SAID,  "To  make  it  small, 
One  question  sums  them  all  : 
If  You  are  God  and  King 
Unchallenged  in  Your  place: 
If  You  are  kindness  furled 
In  all-power :  if  You  care 
At  all,  how  could  You  bear 
To  make  a  cruel  world  ?" 

I  asked  God  to  His  face, 
"How  could  You  do  that  thing? 
That  answers  all  the  rest." 
God  cast  His  eyes  on  me, 
Then  turned  into  a  tree 
And  said,  "Come  build  your  nest." 


The  Four  Kings. 

I  CAME  upon  four  tall  young  kings 
Filling  the  wood  with  smiling  state, 
Ringed  round  with  dark,  furred  councillors, 
Great  servants  of  the  great. 

They  drew  the  light  from  all  the  sky 
To  flood  that  circle  of  dark  wood : 
I  think  that  grey  day  was  hard-pressed 
To  serve  their  golden  mood. 

They  did  not  ask  me  to  come  in, 
They  did  not  notice  me,  indeed, 
Nor  tell  me  what  they  plotted  there, 
Nor  what  fire-hearted  need 

Had  made  them  turn  from  hickory-trees 
Whom  I  had  found  in  friendly  talk 
With  the  tall  pines  that  ringed  them  round 
On  many  a  summer  walk, 

To  kings  of  light  intolerable 
(Yet  joyous,  young,  and  void  of  wrath), 
Bright  gods — I  slipt  away  and  left 
My  shoes  beside  the  path. 


The  W^orld  at  the  Bottom  of 
the  Lake. 


HERE  is  a  world  that's  floored  with  clouds, 
J_     And  hung  with  tall  black  trees 
Whose  lustrous  heads  are  weighted  down 
With  plumed  mysteries. 

That  world  where  pines  grow  upside-down, 
And  you  can  see  the  air, 
Though  it  is  clearer  than  clear  glass  — 
I  have  lost  something  there. 

I  hang  above  my  lifted  oar, 
And  look,  and  look,  until 
The  water-spell  has  almost  caught 
My  heart,  my  dreaming  will. 

For  very  much  I'd  like  to  slip 
Down  through  the  rippled  floor, 
And  dive  for  something  I  had  once 
And  haven't  any  more. 


Grey. 


UP  among  the  grey  clouds, 
Through  the  grey  rain, 
The  wild  ducks  are  trailing 
Their  wavering  chain. 

Frailer  than  a  lace-thread, 
Through  the  waste  of  grey, 
Steadily  the  wraith-chain 
Drags  my  heart  away. 


[  33  ] 


Tree  Talk. 

SOME  days,  the  pines  upon  my  hills 
Speak  nothing  of  their  secret  wills, 
But  with  an  absent  smile  they  say, 
"Dear,  we  can't  talk  to  you  today." 

They  are  like  nearest  friends  in  this 
Who  leave  me  hungry  with  a  kiss 
Sometimes:  again,  with  two  words  said, 
Send  me  rejoicing,  banqueted. 


[34] 


/  Shall  Be  Loved  as  Quiet 


Alternatives. 

MY  years  have  limped ;  but  I 
Have  tried  so  hard  to  fly ! 
And  now,  suppose  Death  brings 
Gulls'  wings 
At  last,  for  me  to  keep  ? 

Yet  comes  he  not  so  soon 
But  I  know  what  a  boon 
Is — Sleep. 


1 36  ] 


The  Highwayman. 


HE  nurses  there  among  his  crags 
His  haughty  schemes — 
And  he  may  snatch  my  elfin  purse 
That's  stuffed  with  dreams; 

But  I  have  wealth  he  cannot  touch, 

Spoiler  of  kings! 

For  I  have  tasted  agony 

And  worn  joy's  wings. 


t  37  ] 


The  Marching  Mountains, 

THE  clouds  went  past  me  after  the  rain — 
Mountains,  continents,  globes — 
And  beauty  lay  on  my  heart  with  pain 
Like  the  weight  of  jewelled  robes. 

And  I  was  glad  that  I  shall  not  lie 
Forever  under  the  grass, 
Never  again  to  watch  the  sky 
Where  the  marching  mountains  pass. 

And  I  was  glad  that  I  have  shed 
The  worst  of  beauty's  pain, 
The  thought  that  I  shall  soon  be  dead 
Never  to  look  again ; 

That  they  have  no  glory  to  declare, 
That  they  march  to  no  heavenly  town : 
The  yoke  of  beauty  is  easy  to  bear 
Since  I  need  not  lay  it  down. 


[  38 1 


The  Window. 

GOD  hangs  my  slatted  cage,  sometimes, 
On  skyey  balconies  of  bloom ; 
He  lifts  my  latch,  some  rainy  days, 
And  lets  me  hop  about  His  room; 

But  when,  at  last,  He  thinks  it  time 
To  tell  me  what  the  Others  know, 
He'll  lift  the  window  toward  the  hills 
And  let  me  go. 


[  39 


To  One  W^ho  Smiles  at  My 
Simplicity. 


IF,  as  you  say,  O  wise  one, 
And  as  I  one  time  said, 
Life  cannot  care  for  persons 
And  all  the  dead  are  dead, 

Yet,  even  so,  I'll  salvage 
Part  of  the  desperate  stake : 
I  shall  not  sleep  less  deeply 
Because  I  thought  to  wake. 

No  roar  of  great  wings  passing 
Above  my  dusty  head 
Shall  mock  me,  if,  you  winning, 
Your  dead  world  holds  me,  dead. 


[  40  ] 


Answers, 

YOU  smile  at  my  answer — 
At  yours  I  shake  my  head : 
You  live  on  iron  and  jewels — 
But  I  need  bread. 

I  adore  your  rubies, 
Admire  your  dynamo — 
You  will  not  taste  my  manna : 
Yes  answers  more  than  No. 


Dogmatic. 


HE  whom  the  trees  accept, 
He  to  whom  the  great  clouds  bow  in  passing, 
He  to  whom  the  bluebirds  bring  the  back-door  gossip  of 

heaven — 

He  cannot  be  agnostic. 
Soon  or  late,  he  must  say,  "I  love": 
Who  loves,  knows. 


New  York  from  the  Harbor. 

BEAUTY  SPEAKS: 

4 '  T  N  the  dark  of  his  heart  he  muttered, 

J.  (Man,  my  greedy  child,) 
'I  will  build  me  a  black  city 
Beside  the  waters. 
Of  slate  and  iron  will  I  build  it, 
And  the  fierceness  of  my  desire. 
I  will  build  it  high 
(That  I  may  outreach  my  brother) 
With  many  ladders; 
And  men  in  the  ships  shall  look  upon  it 
To  say,  It  is  mighty  and  fearful.' 

"And  I  laughed  low  in  my  heart  and  plotted, 

I  will  build  me  a  blue  palace 

Out  of  the  waste  breath  of  your  striving, 

A  blue  palace  upon  a  cliff, 

With  many  windows. 

I  will  deck  it  with  plumy  banners; 

And  men  in  the  ships  shall  look  upon  it 

And  say,  It  is  beautiful ! 

"And  when  he  was  come  up  by  his  many  ladders, 

He  found  me  waiting  by  my  silver  windows, 

Me, 

His  mother, 

Dreaming." 


[  43  ] 


The  Old  W^oman  with  the 
Grey  Shawl. 

"T  TELPA  Madre  Angelotti, 

1    1   Geeva  pennee,  geeva  pennee! 
Geeva,  and  I  pray  for  you! 
For  da  kinda  ladee, 
An'  da  younga  fellow, 
An'daleetlagirl!" 

Withered  Mother  Angelotti, 

I'll  not  buy  your  prayers  with  pennies! 

Grin  above  them  in  your  palm — 

Still  they're  not  the  coins  you  think  them ! 

One  is  silvered,  as  with  tear-shine, 

One  is  rusty-red,  like  heart-break, 

One,  I  own,  is  light  as  laughter 

For  your  ancient,  battered  shrewdness, 

Wheedling  Mother  Angelotti — 

Take  them  for  your  wrinkled  prayers! 

Prayers  are  things  we  all  have  need  of, 

Grey  old  Mother  Angelotti — 

The  kind  lady, 

And  the  young  fellow, 

And  the  little  girl. 


[  44  ] 


Street-ends. 


1LOVE  the  ends  of  streets — 
Those  high  and  narrow  dreams 
That  slip  into  men's  sight 
For  all  their  blinded  walls; 

I  love  the  ends  of  streets — 
Wickets  for  morning-gleams, 
Last  taverns  for  the  light 
When  evening  falls; 

I  love  the  ends  of  streets! 
From  those  steep  stairs,  it  seems, 
Something  looks  back,  at  night, 
And  calls,  and  calls. 


Sunset  Song. 


A>HES  of  roses,  where  the  clouds  were  burning 
A  breath  ago — so  swiftly  sink  the  fires. 
Beauty  remembered,  ashen  roses,  yearning 
Over  the  quiet  roofs  and  dreaming  spires. 
Beauty  to  ashes  evermore  returning, 
Flickering  down  of  wildest  old  desires — 
Ashes — the  deathless  Bird  of  Joy  was  burning 
A  breath  ago,  upon  a  thousand  pyres. 

Beauty  for  ashes!  Singing  with  the  morning, 
Burns  the  bright  rose  of  everlasting  years ; 
Beauty  for  ashes — all  our  travail  scorning, 
Young  laughter  gushes  from  old  rocky  fears; 
Beauty  for  ashes:  life  for  life  adorning, 
The  Future  makes  her  jewels  of  our  tears. 


Box-car  Letters. 

A^ONE  on  the  hill  where  the  sun  goes  down 
I  plunder  the  earth  from  my  little  town ; 
But  the  spoils  I  bring  in  my  fairy  sack 
Are  scattered  and  spilled  on  the  railroad  track.  .  .  . 
For  there,  on  the  siding,  the  box-cars  doze, 
And  this  is  the  way  their  dreaming  goes: 

"Sault  Sainte-Marie  and  Chicopee, 

Miami  and  San  Antonio — " 

They  call  like  a  lover's  song  to  me, 

Call,  and  I  want  to  go! 

Santa  Fe,  Norfolk  and  Kalamazoo, 

Sacramento,  Mobile,  Peru — 

How,  do  you  think,  you  could  tamely  bide 

In  the  one  small  spot  where  your  heart  was  tied, 

When  those  haughty  drudges  came  creaking  through, 

Tearing  your  anchored  heart  in  two, 

Each  with  a  name  on  its  stolid  side 

Two  feet  tall  and  ten  feet  wide, 

That  rings  like  a  chime  for  you  ? 

The  wanderer's  day  will  have  one  good  hour, 
And  every  roadside  one  magic  flower ; 
They  wither  and  droop  if  you  stay  too  long, 
The  perfume  goes  like  an  ended  song. 
I  would  come  back  to  the  ways  I  know, 
But  I  would  not  stay  when  I  want  to  go ! 

Wichita,  Bangor,  and  San  Jose, 

Ypsilanti  and  Monterey — 

They  flutter  my  peace  like  the  tang  of  spray ! 

[47  ] 


From  high  dream-pastures  homing  down 
To  the  fold  of  my  heart  in  the  little  town, 
I  have  to  wait  at  the  railroad  track 
On  a  trundling  train  with  a  snorting  stack ! 
The  engine's  a  genie,  a  grimy  scamp 
Who  turns  a  philosopher  into  a  tramp. 
Denver,  Seattle  and  Calumet, 
Natchez,  New  Haven  and  Laramie — 
Go  on  with  your  lumbering  lure,  and  let 
A  poor  philosopher  be ! 


The  Hill  Steps. 


THERE'S  a  flight  of  steps  running  down  the  hill 
Toward  the  town  that  lies  in  the  valley  below, 
And  down  you  come  in  the  paling  light 
While  the  roofs  are  pink  with  the  afterglow. 

And  there — from  the  top  of  the  steps — it  lies 
Like  the  Town  of  Pearl  in  the  Prince's  dream, 
In  every  chimney  a  plume  of  blue, 
In  every  window  a  blazing  gleam. 

Then,  down  you  come.  And,  one,  two,  three, 
Twelve  steps,  and  your  foot  is  on  solid  land — 
And  in  less  than  a  minute  you'll  catch  the  smell 
Of  onions  down  at  the  chilli-stand. 


[  49  ] 


The  Elopement. 


THE  pine-tree  is  a  man-tree, 
The  proudest  tree  that  grows! 
Lifting  his  solemn  head-plume 
Up  in  the  air  he  goes ; 

His  is  the  staunchest  column, 
His  is  the  stiffest  leaf  ; 
And  when  he  cries,  a  man's  voice 
Groans  with  a  strong  man's  grief. 

The  cedar-tree  is  a  lady ! 
Light  as  a  ship  she  goes, 
Dipping  her  feathery  rigging, 
Bending  to  wear  the  snows, — 

Some  night  they  will  be  married — 
Something  will  send  for  me — 
An  owl  will  hoot  in  the  blue  starlight, 
And  I'll  slip  out  and  see ! 


Temperate  Tribute. 

YOU  are  a  poet,  sycamore, 
A  minor  poet. 

You  are  not  much  good  in  a  practical  world ; 
You  shed  your  ragged  leaves  early,  and  clutter  up  the 

landscape. 

But  you  are  lovely  on  winter  evenings 
Against  the  afterglow — 
Bare  and  pale  and  a  little  disdainful, 
But  yourself. 


Maples  in  the  Fall. 


THE  maple- trees  are  turning — 
Their  flames  leap  ever  higher ; 
All  day  my  heart  is  burning 
In  the  rose-colored  fire. 

Like  ashes,  grey  and  tarnished, 
My  sins  are  sifting  down : 
I'll  have  a  heart  fire-burnished 
To  carry  back  to  town ! 


The  Greedy  Ghost. 

ND  I  shall  walk  for  love  of  it 

When  I'm  a  ghost  that's  free  of  breath, 
Not  to  appease  a  whimpering 
Poor  grudge  at  Death ; 

But  just  to  see  this  shining  sphere 
Where  all  my  years  are  pinpoint-tied — 
A  fly  upon  a  peach  could  crawl 
To  the  other  side ! 

The  minarets  of  cloud  can  wait 
For  one  star-twinkle ;  wait  until 
I  shall  have  gazed  on  Mother  Rome 
From  every  hill, 

And  kissed  a  hand  to  Greece,  and  crossed 
A  palm-tree's  shadow  in  Algiers — 
And  knelt  on  stones  where  my  great  Dead 
Have  spilled  their  tears. 


[  53  ] 


Rain  and 

I  LOVE  the  Rain, 
But  she  is  a  sad  lady — 
She  weeps  and  weeps. 
She  is  silvery  and  beautiful, 
But  I  do  not  need  her  ; 
I  can  find  the  likes  of  her,  any  day,  in  my  heart. 

But  oh,  it  is  the  Wind  I  love, 

The  wooer  with  laughter, 

He  is  my  true  lover ! 

He  snatches  away  the  silvery  veil  of  the  sad  lady, 

He  changes  her  into  a  huntress  who  races  with  him  on 

the  mountains, 

He  turns  the  raindrops  in  her  hair  into  cold  jewels, 
And  her  tears  to  little  birds. 

It  is  the  Wind  I  love, 

The  laughing,  racing,  starry  Wind  from  the  outer  spaces, 

He  is  my  true  lover ! 


[  54  ] 


Color. 


WE  belong  to  the  blue  serge  world, 
Even  in  our  village. 

We  have  outgrown  color  as  a  child  outgrows  its  toys, 
Regretfully. 

Even  our  laughing  yellow  girls, 
Who  whiten  their  smooth  cheeks, 
And  straighten  their  black  hair, 
Love  red  like  a  secret  sin ; 
And  nearly  all  of  us  have  learned  to  smile 
At  the  green  hatbands  of  Jose  and  'Ilario 
Who  come  to  town  for  whiskey,  Saturdays. 
We  are  very  sober. 

But  Beauty  outwits  us; 

For  when  the  Council  lays  new  sewer-pipes, 

And  tired,  blind  workmen  hang  red  lanterns  out 

At  sundown, 

I,  for  one, 

Quite  drunken-eyed  stroll  up  the  dusk-blue  street 

Strewn  with  Aladdin's  rubies.  .  .  . 


[  55] 


Mountain-dream. 

I  SEE.  .  .  . 
(Having  once  seen  the  unforgettable) 

I  see  chasms  swimming  in  mountain-light, 

Rocks,  red  and  white,  columns  and  domes  and  arches; 

Golden-bun0  shoulders  of  near  peaks, 

White  dazzle  of  far  ones  .  .  . 

Sheets  of  purple  foam  upon  seas  of  blowing  green ; 

Fluttering,  glistening  cotton-woods  edging  the  pebbly  glit 
ter  of  arroyos ; 

Hay-stacks — golden  bubbles  upon  high,  still  seas  of  bright 
stubble  ; 

Little  cedars  scrambling  upon  the  boulders  to  plant  their 
ragged,  windy  banners; 

The  blue,  blue,  incredible  blue  of  mountain-waters  .  .  . 

God's  dream  spread  out  above  me, 

His  playthings  strewn  at  my  feet.  .  .  . 

And  here  I  stay  under  fatherly  trees  who  indulgently  tell 
me 

They  are  near  to  the  sky  as  any, 

And  tag  after  drawling  red  roads  that  smile  at  my  high- 
flown  fancies, 

As  they  saunter  along  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets, 

Thinking  that,  maybe,  day  after  tomorrow, 

They  will  take  a  look  at  the  crops  from  the  top  of  the 
next  little  hill. 


A  Flock  of  Birds. 

I—A  BLUEBIRD 

NOBODY  has  ever  told  how  a  bluebird  sings. 
It  is  like  a  butterfly  whispering  secrets  to  a  pear- 
blossom  ; 

It  is  like  the  elf-high  blades  in  the  oat-field  telling  each 
other  how  it  feels  to  be  up ; 

It  is  like  the  voice  of  a  brook  where  it  steps  over  a  stone; 

It  is  like  a  happy  thought  talking; 

It  is  like  the  taste  of  spring-water ; 

It  is  like  the  brown  glee  of  the  ploughed  ground. 

Nobody  has  ever  been  able  to  tell  how  a  bluebird  sings, 

And  neither  am  I. 


— DOVES 

HILDREN  like  doves  because  of  their  sickle-wings, 

With  whistles  under  them. 
Men  like  them  for  their  gentle,  still,  grey  manners — 
They  are  never  ruffled,  like  women. 
Old  people  like  doves  because  of  their  haunted  voices: 
They  understand  what  they  mean. 
God  likes  doves  because  they  are  doves: 
They  mourn  softly. 


Ill— THE  WREN 

THE  wren's  mind  is  in  her  tail, 
But  it  is  a  charming  tail, 
And  a  brisk  and  whirring  mind. 

[  57  ] 


Once  I  caught  a  wren  standing  on  tiptoe,  peeking  into  my 

room. 

I  should  have  been  shocked  at  such  conduct  in  a  thrush, 
But  I  didn't  mind  it  in  a  wren. 


IV— THE  WOOD-THRUSH,  OR  BELL-BIRD 

f  |^ HE  thrush  knows  a  secret. 

JL     He  knows  why  we  came  here, 
And  why  we  shouldn't  mind  dying. 
He  knows  how  the  earth  would  look  if  you  saw  it  from 

star. 

In  winter  he  goes  to  heaven. 
And  yet,  every  spring, 
He  is  just  as  pleased  to  see  the  first  bluet, 
And  he  takes  just  as  good  care  of  his  children, 
As  if  he  didn't  know  anything  else  ; 
And  I  think  cut-worms  taste  just  as  good  to  him 
As  they  do  to  the  wicked  jay. 


V—THE  JAY 

FOR  the  jay,  you  know,  goes  to  the  other  place 
Every  Friday. 

There  he  eats  little  singers  in  their  speckled  eggs, 
And  fireflies  with  their  lights  on, 
And  slim,  green,  boneless  little  lizards, 
All  day  long, 
Raw. 

I  can  fancy  their  innocent  tails  sticking  out  of  his  mouth 
When  he  swaggers  up  to  my  respectable  food-shelf, 
And  helps  himself  contemptuously, 


To  show  me  that  the  vaunted  crumbs  of  virtue 
Are  a  mere  appetizer  to  the  bold  and  bad. 
I  don't  argue  with  him : 
I  just  love  the  good  birds  best. 

VI— THE  CARDINAL  AND  HIS  LADY 

THE  redbird  is  the  core  of  fire  at  the  heart  of  my  still 
living; 

And  his  little  lady  is  the  soft  ashes  covering  the  half-seen 
embers. 


[  59] 


Cocoons. 


SCORN  is  a  scourge : 
I  need  the  scourge  for  myself. 
Love  is  a  key : 

Except  it  open  the  one  low  door, 
I  must  stay  in  my  cell  with  my  scourge. 


II 

I  HAVE  fought  for  my  triumph 
Bitterly  and  long, 

And  I  would  have  fought  to  the  death 
For  my  soul's  sake  and  yours. 

But  now  that  it  is  won — 

See,  here  is  my  sword : 

Take  it  away — I  do  not  like  to  look  at  it. 

Let  us  play  you  are  the  conqueror. 


Ill 

OUT  into  a  green  backyard  came  a  woman  in  a  blue 
apron 

Carrying  yellow  meal  in  a  bright  tin  pail. 
The  chickens  came  running ; 

And  those  little  hungry  sparrows  that  are  my  thoughts, 
All  day  teasing  and  quarrelling, 
Settled  down  on  the  grass  among  the  plump  flock, 
Greedy  and  pleased. 


IV 

I  NEVER  knew  a  farmer  who  scolded  the  bluebirds 
For  thinking  the  fence-posts  were  made  for  them : 
And  I  guess  God  will  not  be  offended 
If  my  heart  builds  its  nest  in  His  fence-post. 


Garrets  for  Poets. 

I  FOUND  a  royal  moth  half-way  out  of  his  chrysalis, 
Powerless  to  go  further. 

I  broke  the  hard,  brittle  shell  with  my  fingers — too  late. 
His  crumpled  wings  were  gorgeous, 
But  they  would  not  fly. 

The  limitations  of  a  chrysalis  are  the  strength  of  a  cater 
pillar  ; 

They  help  him  to  concentrate  his  mind  on  wings. 

But  when  it  comes  to  emerging, 

Every  caterpillar  should  arrange  to  be  prompt  and 
lucky — 

If  he  wants  to  soar. 


[62 


Dressmaker. 

4 4 ~\7"  ES,  plain  things  do  last  longer — 

\     Straight  lines  always  look  stylish,  somehow." 
She  knelt  at  my  feet,  hanging  a  skirt, 
Her  mouth  full  of  pins. 
Her  tired  face  caught  a  faint  light 
As  she  groped  for  the  More  behind  her  words : 
A  Thought  had  touched  her  soul  ; 
She  was  a  timid,  rustic  priestess 
Of  Art. 

And  I,  who  had  gone  in  drooping, 

Came  out  with  a  high  head : 

"Aha!"  I  said  to  the  housetops, 

"Plain  things  do  last  longer — 

Straight  lines  will  always  be  stylish  as  trees." 


Tools. 

WE  found  ready  to  our  hands  in  the  beginning 
A  trowel  and  a  knife : 
I  have  kept  them  both. 

You  throw  away  the  knife,  and  call  the  throwing, 
Courage ; 

I  flinch,  but  I  use  it, 
And  call  the  using,  Choice. 
I  think  I  was  given  so  terrible  a  tool 
Because  it  was  needed. 

One  can  tell  the  difference  by  looking  at  our  gardens. 

God  knows  which  is  the  better : 

For  the  passer-by  I  suppose  it's  a  matter  of  taste. 


64  ] 


No  Respecter  of  Persons. 

WHY,  God  may  even  go  to  church 
And  listen  to  the  hymns  and  prayers, 
Just  as  he  walks  among  the  corn 
And  breathes  its  homely,  incensed  airs; 

And  those  adventurers  of  God's — 
His  ragged,  bitter,  rebel  clan — 
Forget  He  sometimes  walks  beside 
A  comfortable  righteous  man. 


Full  Moon  before  Dark. 

DELICATE  as  a  flower  of  silk, 
A  blown  balloon  of  luminous  shadow, 
The  moon,  a  pale-gold  bubble, 
Floats  just  above  the  trees. 

If  it  were  my  bubble,  the  Methodist  steeple  would  prick  it. 
But  nothing  can  prick  God's  bubble — 
Not  even  a  church-spire. 


The  Lord  Speaks  from  the 
Banks  of  the  Stream. 

GOD  said  to  the  Puritan 
As  He  stood  on  the  bank  of  His  river, 
"I  told  you  to  swim  to  me: 
You  builded  a  bridge  of  stone 
To  bring  back  the  Soul  to  the  Giver. 
Your  timorous,  dry-shod  plan 
Was  well  enough  in  its  way, 
But  you  wrestled  and  toiled  alone, 
And  your  work  was  heavier  far, 
And  now  you  will  have  to  stay 
On  the  bank  till  you  learn  to  play — 
Old  and  stiff  as  you  are." 

God  said  to  the  drowning  Sinner, 
"I  told  you  to  swim  to  me. 
But  you  played  and  played  in  the  stream, 
And  you  stayed  and  stayed  in  the  stream, 
And  you  laughed  at  the  ones  who  said 
You  might  stay  in  the  water  too  long. 
And  now  you  are  cramped  and  cold, 
And  you  will  go  down  in  the  stream. 
And  then,  fished  out  of  the  slime, 
I  must  leave  you  to  air  and  dry, 
Wasting  eternal  time, 
Hung  on  a  thorn,  to  sigh 
While  measureless  years  go  by." 

God  called  to  the  Swimmer-with-Glee, 
God  called  to  the  Laden-and- Weary, 


"Swim  to  me,  swim  to  me ! 

Bring  back  the  Gift  to  the  Giver ! 

Dear, 

I  am  a  shady  Tree 

For  those  who  rest  from  the  River." 


Three  Small  Poems, 


TO  GET  WISDOM 

1WILL  spread  out  my  mind 
As  the  wind  spreads  the  skies: 
I  will  make  my  heart  Argus, 
Full  of  love's  eyes: 
So  shall  I  grow 
Abysmally  wise. 


MEEKNESS  AND  PRIDE 

MEEKNESS  and  Pride 
Are  fruits  of  one  tree : 
Eat  of  them  both 
For  mastery: 
Take  one  of  Pride — 
Of  the  other,  three. 


COURAGE 

OURAGE  is  armor 
A  blind  man  wears; 

The  calloused  scar 

Of  outlived  despairs: 

Courage  is  Fear 

That  has  said  its  prayers. 


69 


Not  in  the  W^hirlwind. 

DO  I  speak  soft  and  little, 
Do  I  offer  you  a  drop  of  honey  in  a  bent  brown 
leaf? 

Yet  I,  too,  have  been  rent  by  the  whirlwind ; 
I  have  lain  trembling  under  its  bellowings, 
I  have  endured  its  fangs, 

I  have  heard  it  hiss  and  groan,  "Bitterness,  bitterness!" 
But  all  I  have  left, 
After  its  searchings  and  its  rendings, 
May  be  told  in  a  soft  voice 
And  is  sweet — 
Sweet, 
Like  a  drop  of  thick  honey  in  a  bent  brown  leaf. 


70 


Vanity. 

I  KNOW  why  ladies  dress  themselves 
In  silky  sheens  and  peacock  dyes: 
They  hush  their  hungry  little  souls 
And  feed  them  through  their  snatching  eyes. 

I  know  why  ladies  mince  and  strut 
And  wrap  themselves  in  mimic  state : 
Despairing  prisoners  of  the  world, 
Their  hearts  are  hungry  to  be  great. 


1 71  i 


Songs  from  a  Still  Place. 

I— THE  WALL  OF  TEARS 

PAIN  is  a  house  of  glass 
High  on  a  stony  hill  ; 
Over  it  pours  the  rain, 
Spraying  from  roof  and  sill. 

It  is  filled  with  a  curious  light, 
And  the  Soul  says,  peering  out, 
"Were  it  not  for  my  wall  of  tears, 
I  could  see  what  God  is  about!" 

II— THE  PLAITED  WREATH 

I'VE  made  my  days  into  a  wreath, 
Since  I've  no  other  crown, 
And  no  one  sees,  or  calls  me  proud 
As  I  go  up  and  down. 

For  it  is  woven  of  three  strands 
To  wear  through  rain  and  sun : 
One,  agony;  one,  ecstasy — 
And  hidden  peace  is  one. 

Ill— BEADS 

HOW  I  have  scrambled  for  my  beads ! 
And  oh,  what  anxious  care 
To  pick  them  up,  and  sort  them  out, 
And  braid  them  in  my  hair! 


Rubies,  and  beads  of  amethyst, 
Gold  like  a  baby's  curl, 
And  heavy  beads  of  ebony, 
And  pale  ones,  of  dead  pearl. 

Why  did  I  take  so  long  to  learn 
(And  how  my  fingers  bled!) 
This  simple  way  of  stringing  them 
Upon  a  silver  thread  ? 

IV— PEACE 

HIDE  a  seed  under  a  rock, 
Water  the  rock  with  tears : 
So  may  you  pick  the  flower 
After  a  hundred  years. 

Fall  on  the  sword  of  God — 
See  that  it  pierce  you  through : 
Out  of  that  wet,  red  stalk 
The  flower  will  blossom,  too. 


V— GIVING 

I  SAT  upon  a  stone  alone, 
Hungry,  and  cold,  and  dumb; 
God's  ravens  had  forgotten  me, 
My  wallet  held  no  crumb. 

Then  one  came  toiling  up  the  rocks 
Seeking  my  bruited  store : 
I  spread  a  banquet  for  us  both — 
There  was  enough  and  more ! 

[  73  ] 


VI— FREE 

UP  on  God's  window-sill, 
Carolling  high  and  shrill, 
Shaken  with  ecstasy, 
There  clung  my  spirit — free ! 

God  showed  His  glorious  Head- 
Singing,  to  Him  she  said, 
"Who  was  it  did  me  wrong? 
Why  was  I  caged  so  long, 
Tangled  in  wires  and  strings, 
Under  the  stars?" 

"Birdling,  I  made  the  wings — 
You  made  the  bars." 


[  74  ] 


Orders. 

SHE  is  wise,  the  Ancient  Mother, 
Her  ways  are  not  our  ways : 
We  cannot  circumscribe  her 
Though  we  watch  her  all  our  days. 

On  each  of  her  questioning  children 
She  presses  a  different  will : 
To  one  she  says,  "Keep  busy !" 
To  one  she  says,  "Keep  still !" 

She  said  to  me,  "Wait  and  listen : 
I  have  plenty  to  drive  and  do — 
But,  once  in  a  while,  when  you  are  sure, 
Speak  out  a  word  or  two !" 


[  75  ] 


One  Morning  in  Gyara. 

Says  Epictetus,  "And  where  wilt  Thou  have  me  to  be  ? 
At  Rome  or  Athens?  Only  remember  me  there!"  And 
again,  "If  you  are  in  Gyara  ...  be  intent  on  this:  how 
he  that  lives  in  Gyara  may  live  in  Gyara  like  a  man  of 
spirit." 

Gyara  was  an  island  in  the  Aegean,  used  as  a  place  of 

banishment. 

i 

ONE  morning  in  Gyara 
My  Soul  shook  me  awake : 
"Then  will  you  fight  no  battle, 
Do  nothing  for  my  sake? 

"My  plumes  are  dull  with  drooping 

In  the  same  maple's  shade: 

The  very  air  is  furrowed 

With  paths  my  wings  have  made." 

That  morning  in  Gyara 
She  turned  her  sullen  head 
And  Socrates  and  Jesus 
Were  standing  by  our  bed. 

Under  the  new-leaved  maples 
Lord  Buddha  paced  in  brown, 
And  by  his  side  the  wise  Slave 
Went  limping  up  and  down. 

My  Soul  bent  like  a  sapling 
Caught  in  a  sudden  gust : 
With  wings  her  shamed  face  veiling 
She  bowed  her  in  the  dust ; 

[  76] 


For  thronging  house  and  dooryard 
Of  us  who  ill  deserve, 
Were  guests  she  had  invited 
And  then  forgot  to  serve ! 

Rainbows  of  far-caught  wonder 
From  all  their  garments  rayed : 
Round  them  the  dooryard  maples 
Rippled  like  seas  of  jade. 

Uprisen  in  Gyara, 
Barefoot,  rapt  and  whole, 
She  went  about  among  them, 
Bearing  her  plate  and  bowl  ; 

For  they  had  come  from  farther 
Than  Athens  is,  or  Rome, 
That  morning,  to  Gyara, 
To  find  my  Soul  at  home. 


[  77  ] 


The  Cripple. 


A  BIRD  came  hopping  on  my  shelf 
With  one  good  foot — a  stump  the  other 
It  hurt  my  heart  to  see  so  maimed 
A  feathered  brother. 

Yet  when  he  spread  his  wings  to  go 
He  seemed  to  launch  himself  with  laughter, 
As  though  to  shame  my  sorry  thoughts 
That  fluttered  after ; 

For  though  he  could  not  perch  so  well, 
Nor  strut,  nor  swagger  any  longer, 
His  wings  were  strong  as  any  bird's — 
Or  were  they  stronger  ? 


Pronouns. 

x 


THE  Lord  said, 
"Say, 'We'"; 
But  I  shook  my  head, 
Hid  my  hands  tight  behind  my  back,  and  said, 

Stubbornly, 

..i  » 

The  Lord  said, 

"Say,  'We'"; 

But  I  looked  upon  them,  grimy  and  all  awry. 

Myself  in  all  those  twisted  shapes?  Ah,  no! 

Distastefully  I  turned  my  head  away, 

Persisting, 

"They." 

The  Lord  said, 

"Say,  'We'"; 

And  I, 

At  last, 

Richer  by  a  hoard 

Of  years 

And  tears, 

Looked  in  their  eyes  and  found  the  heavy  word 

That  bent  my  neck  and  bowed  my  head : 

Like  a  shamed  schoolboy  then  I  mumbled  low, 

"We, 

Lord." 


[   79  ] 


Root  and  Flower. 


PAIN  is  the  rich,  dark  loam 
Where  my  roots  thrust  and  grope, 
Breaking  their  stubborn  foot, 
Fighting  for  scope  ; 

But  up  in  the  delicate  air 
That  wraps  leaf  and  bark, 
Joy,  like  a  foam  of  flowers, 
Bursts  from  the  dark. 


Initiation. 


NOW  God  has  given  me 
The  sureness  of  a  tree : 
My  heart  flows  out  of  my  breast 
Into  a  tree,  for  rest. 

Still  must  I  fall  like  water 

Shattered  in  spray; 

Still  must  I  go  as  the  wind  goes 

Feeling  her  way; 

Still,  as  a  fire  eat  upward 

Through  smothering  pain ; 

Still  break  and  yield  as  a  flower  breaks 

In  beating  rain: 

But  when  I  must  have  rest 
My  heart  flows  out  of  my  breast, 
Slips  out  of  herself,  is  free. 
At  last  God  gives  to  me 
The  wisdom  of  a  tree. 


Jointer  Dusk. 

THE  black  pines,  and  the  pale-gold  moon, 
And  the  cold  blue  sky, 
And  the  drumming  whir  of  small  hid  wings 
In  the  bush  close  by ; 

And  the  sober  rose  in  the  leaden  sheen 
Of  the  sedgy  lake — 
This  beauty  feeds  and  heals  my  heart 
It  used  to  break. 

This  joy  that  was  a  restless  pang, 
Pain-edged,  sword-bright, 
Now  wraps  me  in  stern  tenderness, 
Secure  delight. 

I  have  come  home  to  the  heart  of  things, 
Made  friends  with  pain, 
And  God  has  given  me  sevenfold 
My  joy  again. 


Acknowledgment. 


EVERY  evening  now,  for  years, 
As  I  have  gained  the  top  of  the  hill, 
Three  cedars  have  signalled  me  from  across  the  valley. 

I  owe  them  a  poem. 

Companionable  green  angels, 

Ambassadors  of  loveliness, 

Princes  in  willing  exile, 

Telling  familiarly  of  the  burning  aloofness  of  beauty 

To  all  who  will  stop  to  hear — 

I  kneel  at  your  feet ! 

Steadfast  ardors, 

Too  wise  for  importunity, 

Noble  and  negligent — 

Touch  me  with  the  edges  of  your  ragged  mantles ; 

Give  me  of  your  way-worn,  windy  grace  ; 

Shed  from  your  homely,  aromatic  wings  upon  me 

Healing  and  potency: 

Accept  my  salute. 


Anniversary  in  November. 

I— BIRTHDAY 

THIS  is  her  day.  For,  years  ago, 
On  such  a  bannered  day  as  this — 
Dogwood  and  sumach  flaming  so — 
She  died.  I  cannot  go  and  kiss 

Her  forehead,  as  on  birthdays  gone ; 
She  is  a  birth  ahead  of  me. 
Meantime,  she  knows  I  keep  this  one — 
This  door  of  Time  where  she  went  free. 

I,  clinging  to  the  windy  sill, 
She,  stooping  from  the  winged  air, 
Meet  on  this  ledge  of  love's  high  will — 
Her  birthday,  that  she  lets  me  share. 


II— THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  WOODS 

YOUR  day  has  come  again.  Far  overhead, 
Cross-stitched  in  wavering  lines  against  the  sky, 
Or  gleaming  buff  and  silver,  wild  and  high, 
The  geese  slip  by  like  phantoms,  phantom-led. 
The  air  is  blue  as  incense-smoke;  flame-red 
The  little  maples,  idly  dreaming  by, 
Trail  their  lit  lanterns  in  the  lake — and  I 
Dream  of  your  life  among  the  living  Dead. 

Through  the  cathedral-windows  of  the  year 
Once  more  the  still  November  sunlight  streams, 

[  84  ] 


And  all  my  World — so  low  and  dim  and  dear! — 
Turns  like  a  maple-leaf  to  catch  the  gleams 
That  tremble  down  from  Yours — it  hangs  so  near, 
Clearer  than  waking,  richer  than  old  dreams. 


Ill— MIGRANTS 

THE  wild,  great  birds,  like  disembodied  Souls, 
Haughty  with  freedom,  will  not  stoop  to  me, 
For  all  my  yearning;  but  the  little  ones 
Flash  for  my  joy  through  every  bush  and  tree. 

I  wonder  if  the  strong-winged  spirits  go 
Swiftly,  like  that,  beyond  our  farthest  scope, 
While  smaller  ones  and  gentler,  stop  and  stir 
The  trees  about  us  with  their  love  and  hope  ? 


IV— ALL  SAINTS'  DAY 

THIS  is  my  All  Saints'  Day.  I  think  you  come, 
Parting  the  broidered  curtains  of  the  year, 
And  say  to  Those  whom  you  have  brought  from  Home, 
Softly,  "Hush,  look!  She  knows  that  we  are  here." 

The  woods  are  lovely  as  your  world  must  be, 
Kindled  by  delicate,  breath-shaken  pyres 
To  haunted  light;  angelic  drapery 
Floats  in  the  smoke  above  the  maple-fires. 

The  air  is  tranced  wTith  beauty ;  beauty  rained 
Just  now,  although  the  black-gum  hardly  stirred ; 
My  plain,  white  hours  are  shaken,  beauty-stained: 
I  wait  and  listen, — and  I  hear  your  Word. 

[  85  ] 


Clear  Hour. 

I  HAVE  been  the  wasted  spray,  the  flying,  fretted  foam : 
Now  I'll  be  the  blue  pool  where  water  is  at  home. 

I  have  been  the  haggard  cloud,  wind-driven  like  white 

dust: 
Now  I'll  be  the  smooth  sky  the  littlest  star  may  trust. 

And  I  have  been  a  free  bird,  to  follow  my  own  needs: 
Now  in  the  cage  of  God's  love,  the  stars  are  golden  seeds. 


t  86] 


T 


The  Housewife:  Jointer 
Afternoon. 

HE  children's  cat  upon  the  window-sill, 
The  little  sounds  that  make  the  house  so  still, 


That  old  brown  hunting-hat  upon  the  rack, 
I  give  away,  and  John  keeps  getting  back, 

The  jonquil  blooming  in  the  yellow  bowl — 
I  well  believe  that  each  one  has  a  soul, 

Each,  body  to  some  delicate,  rich  dream, 
As  my  blue  tea-pot  to  its  perfumed  steam. 

"The  shadows  of  the  angels'  houses" — so 
Said  William  Blake  of  houses  here  below, 

And  if,  at  last,  they'd  set  upon  my  grave, 

(As  once  they  furnished  forth  the  red-skinned  brave,) 

My  old  blue  tea-pot,  and  a  bowl  like  this, 
I  think  I'd  sooner  take  root  in  new  bliss, 

And  not  come  dreaming  back,  a  happy  fool, 

To  wait,  like  this,  till  Johnny  comes  from  school. 


8?  i 


Sky-colors. 

I— BLUE  AND  SILVER 

r  I  ^  HE  clouds  are  flying,  white  horse-tails, 

JL     The  fierce  little  moon  is  a  silver  gadfly, 
The  wind  is  a  whistling  silver  whip : 
Gallop,  gallop,  wild  white  stallions, 
Whinnying  silverly, 
Across  the  cold  blue  valleys, 
Over  the  crystal  hills! 

II— ROSE  AND  GREY 

FIERY  roses  hang  from  the  grey  cloud-bushes, 
Loosely,  ready  to  shatter — 
Great  flame-roses  above  the  cold  earth. 
I  hold  my  breath  lest  the  sharp  black  branches  of  the  old 

oak 

Catch  them  and  tear  them, 
Shake  and  scatter  their  ragged  petals, 
And  shorten  by  a  heart-beat 
Their  unseasonable  blooming. 

Ill— PALE  PINK  AND  PRIMROSE 

ON  a  knoll  in  the  old  fallow  field, 
Dressed  in  the  tawny-grey  of  dead  grasses, 
Three  little  pines  in  short  skirts  stand  together, 
Like  little  girls  in  party-dresses; 
While,  to  make  them  clap  their  hands, 
The  clouds  beyond  them  prink  and  pencil  themselves  with 

delicate  fairy  tints, 
Such  as  little  girls  love. 


IV— CLEAR  GOLD 

f"TpHE  hem  of  the  grey  Dusk  is  of  ember-red  velvet; 
JL     The   bare    trees   brush   against   it   like   thin   black 

feathers  ; 

The  windows  of  the  houses  are  square  pendants  of  topaz 
Muffled  in  veils  of  blue ; 

And  high  above  this  blending  of  dim  splendors — 
A  flower  for  Her  hair — 

The  bright  bent  moon  sprays  a  delicate,  raying  light, 
Like  the  heart  of  a  water-lily,  clear  gold. 


89   ] 


Soft  Rain. 


r  INHERE  is  room  for  ladies  in  a  world  that  holds  soft 

JL  rain, 

For  delicate,  undefended  beauty 
And  gentleness. 

There  is  room  for  slender  young  things,  virgin-wistful, 
With  minds  like  bridal  veils  ; 
There  is  room  for  brittle  old-lady  minds 
That  function  like  the  tinkling  of  tea-cups. 
We  have  been  too  long  blurry  with  rain, 
They  say, 

And  they  are  doubtless  right: 

It  is  the  hour  for  biting  wind  and  stabbing  sunshine. 
But  I  have  walked  in  the  soft  rain  today; 
I  have  seen  the  mist 

Sifting  through  the  black  mantilla  of  the  bare  elm  ; 
There  was  in  it  eternal  beauty — 
It  wrapped  my  heart  in  peace. 
And  it  was  shown  unto  me 
That    there   will    always   be    room    for   ladies — a    little 

room — 

In  a  world  that  wearies,  sometimes, 
Of  its  hausfrau  harvest-zeal  for  corn  and  squashes, 
Of  the  feminist  fury  of  its  Wind-Valkyries ; 
That  lapses,  even, 

From  its  male  salt  and  sleet  and  thunder 
Into  moods  of  rain, 
Soft  rain, 
And  mist. 


90 


The  Mirrored  Bird. 

r  I  ^  HE  bird  that  flies  under  the  water — 

JL  O  lustrous  breast  and  wing! — 
The  bird  that  skims  under  the  water, 
I  wonder,  does  it  sing? 

The  bird  that  slips  under  the  ripple — 

0  gleaming  wing  and  breast! — 
The  flitter  under  the  ripple, 

1  wonder,  does  it  nest  ? 

If  I  could  find  one  nesting, 
If  I  could  hear  one  sing, 
In  the  thickets  under  the  ripple 
That  spreads  in  a  silver  ring, 

I  might  surprise  the  secret, 
The  music  never  heard — 
Trilling  under  the  water 
In  the  throat  of  the  mirrored  bird. 


If  My  Breath  Is  Taken. 


IF  there  be  another  world 
Lovelier  than  this, 
I  hope  that  I'll  know  better 
What  to  do  with  bliss, 

For  now  I  stand  here  dripping 
Like  an  April  tree, 
With  rivulets  of  beauty 
Trickling  off  from  me ! 

Now  the  full  moon  riding  high 
Drenches  me  with  gold, 
Heaps  my  greedy  senses 
With  more  than  they  can  hold : 

If  my  breath  is  taken 

By  this  beauty,  even — 

How  shall  my  naked  spirit  breast 

The  crystal  floods  of  heaven  ? 


Labels. 


I  THINK  I'll  be  going— 
A  creature  that  sings 
Can't  wait  for  the  labels 
To  stick  to  her  wings ! 

If  it's  worth  your  while,  catch  me 
(At  least,  if  you're  able: 
Aristides  himself 
Was  no  match  for  a  label). 


[  93 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED   STATES  OF   AMERICA. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN     INITIAL    FINE    OF    25    CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


APR  6   1933 


15 


1939 


LD  21-50m-l,'c 


64S300 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


'  •  v-  r 


I' 


\     ,    ! 

"-/     y'                     '  '  / 

,4  ^  • 

'.'-' 

" 
• 

•^"^PS^i  'id 

/               ,                         )^"-i         ^               * 

1     .     ' 

/                  :                                '       s** 

^•^>^ 

"'V... 

'•^"^T 

'    x^«  : 

*  r    •--  ; 

%Nwno 

V      ,*/•        --Vi 

,  ;1 


